How the Light Gets In: A Chief Inspector Gamache Novel (32 page)

Jérôme nodded. He did know.

“Gilles now makes the most wonderful furniture, from found wood,” said Gamache. “Reine-Marie and I have a couple of pieces.”

Gilles smiled. “Doesn’t pay the bills, though.”

“Speaking of payment—” Gamache began.

Gilles looked at the Chief Inspector. “Don’t say any more.”

“Désolé,”
said Gamache. “I shouldn’t have said that much.”

“I was glad to help. I can stay if you’d like. That way I’ll be here if you need help.”

“Thank you,” said Gamache, getting to his feet. “We’ll call if we need you.”

“Well, I’ll come tomorrow morning. You’ll find me in the bistro if you need me.”

With his coat on and his large hand on the doorknob, Gilles looked at the four of them.

“There’s a reason thieves steal at night, you know.”

“Are you calling us thieves?” asked Thérèse with some amusement.

“Aren’t you?”

Armand closed the door and looked at his colleagues.

“We have some decisions to make,
mes amis.
”

*   *   *

Jérôme Brunel drew the curtains and walked back to his seat by the fire.

It was almost midnight and, while bone-tired, they’d gotten their second, or third, wind. More coffee had been made, another maple log was tossed on the fire, Henri had been walked and now slept curled up by the hearth.

“Bon,”
said Gamache, leaning forward and looking into their faces. “What do we do now?”

“We’re not ready to connect,” said Jérôme.

“What you mean is, you’re not ready,” Nichol said. “What’re you waiting for?”

“We won’t get a second chance,” Jérôme snapped. “When I operated on a patient I didn’t think,
Well, if I screw up I can always try again.
No. One shot, that’s it. We have to make sure we’re prepared.”

“We are prepared,” Nichol insisted. “Nothing more’s going to happen. No more equipment’s going to show up. No more help. You have everything you’re ever going to have. This is it.”

“Why’re you so impatient?” Jérôme demanded.

“Why aren’t you?” she replied.

“That’s enough,” said Gamache. “What can we do to help, Jérôme? What do you need?”

“I need to know about all that equipment she brought.” He glanced at Nichol, who was sitting with her arms across her chest. “Why do we need two computers?”

“One’s for me,” Nichol said. She decided to speak to them as though to Henri. “I’ll be encrypting the channel we use to access the Sûreté network. If anyone picks up your signal, they’ll need to break the encryption. It buys us time.”

That last bit they understood, even Henri, but they needed to think about the encryption part.

“What you’re saying,” said Thérèse, slowly picking her way through the technical talk, “is that when Jérôme types something on the keyboard it’s put into code? Then that code is scrambled?”

“Exactly,” said Nichol. “All before it leaves the room.” She paused and her arms closed even tighter across her body, like steel straps.

“What is it?” Gamache asked.

“They’ll still find you.” Her voice was soft. It held no triumph. “My programs only make it difficult for them to see you, but not impossible. They know what they’re doing. They’ll find us.”

It didn’t escape the Chief Inspector that within a breath, the “you” had become “us.” There were few more significant breaths.

“Will they know who we are?” he asked.

Gamache saw the vise grip loosen around the young agent’s chest. She leaned slightly forward.

“Now that’s an interesting question. I’ve intentionally created an encryption that appears clunky, unsophisticated.”

“Intentionally?” asked Jérôme, not convinced it was on purpose at all. “Why would anyone do that? We don’t need ‘clunky,’ for God’s sake. We need the best there is.”

He looked at Gamache, and the Chief Inspector could see the slight lash of panic.

Nichol was silent, either because she’d finally figured out the immense power of silence, or because she was miffed. Gamache suspected the latter, but it gave him time to consider Jérôme’s very good question.

Why appear unsophisticated?

“To throw them off,” he said at last, turning to the petulant little face. “They might see us, but they might not take us seriously.”

“C’est ça,”
Nichol said, unwinding slightly. “Exactly. They’ll be looking for a sophisticated attack.”

“It’ll be like taking a stone to a nuclear war,” said Gamache.

“Yes,” said Nichol. “If found, we won’t be taken seriously.”

“For good reason,” said Thérèse. “How much damage can a stone do?”

The David and Goliath analogy aside, the reality was a stone wasn’t much of a weapon. She turned to Jérôme, expecting to see a dismissive look on his face, and was surprised to see admiration.

“We don’t need to do damage,” he said. “We just need to sneak past the guards.”

“That’s the hope,” said Nichol, and gave a great sigh. “I don’t think it’ll work, but it’s worth a try.”

“Jeez,” said Thérèse. “It’s like living with a Greek chorus.”

“My programs will make it difficult for them to see us, but we need a security code to even get in, and they’ll know as soon as you log in with your own codes.”

“And what could stop them from finding us?” Gamache asked.

“I told you that before. A different security code. One that won’t draw any attention. But even that won’t stop them for long. As soon as we break into a file they’re trying to protect, they’ll know it. They’ll hunt us down, and they’ll find us.”

“How long will that take, do you think?”

Nichol’s thin lips pouted as she thought. “Finesse won’t matter at that stage. All that’ll matter is speed. Get in, get what we need, and get out. It’s unlikely we’ll have more than half a day. Probably less.”

“Half a day from the time we break into the first secure file?” Gamache asked.

“No,” said Jérôme. He spoke to Gamache, but was looking at Nichol. “She means twelve hours from our first effort.”

“Maybe less,” said Nichol.

“Twelve hours should be enough, don’t you think?” asked Thérèse.

“It wasn’t before,” said Jérôme. “We’ve had months and still haven’t found what we need.”

“But you didn’t have me,” said Nichol.

They looked at her, marveling at the indestructibility, and delusion, of youth.

“So when do we start?” asked Nichol.

“Tonight.”

“But, Armand—” Thérèse began. Jérôme’s hand had tightened over hers, to the point of hurting her.

“Gilles was right,” said the Chief, his voice decisive. “There’s a reason thieves work at night. Fewer witnesses. We have to get in and get out while everyone else sleeps.”

“Finally,” said Nichol, getting up.

“We need more time,” said Thérèse.

“There is no more time.” Gamache consulted his watch. It was almost one in the morning.

“Jérôme, you have an hour to get your notes together. You know where the alarm was tripped last time. If you can get there fast, we might be in and out with the information in time for breakfast.”

“Right,” said Jérôme. He released his grip on his wife’s hand.

“You get some sleep,” Gamache said to Nichol. “We’ll wake you in an hour.”

He went to the kitchen, and heard the door close behind him.

“What’re you doing, Armand?” asked Thérèse.

“Making fresh coffee.” His back was to her as he counted the spoons of coffee into the machine.

“Look at me,” she demanded. Gamache’s hand stopped, the heaping spoon was suspended and a few grains fell to the counter.

He lowered the spoon to the coffee can and turned.

Thérèse Brunel’s eyes were steady. “Jérôme’s exhausted. He’s been going all day.”

“We all have,” said Gamache. “I’m not saying this is easy—”

“You’re suggesting Jérôme and I are looking for ‘easy’?”

“Then what are you looking for? You want me to say we can all go to sleep and forget what’s happening? We’re close, we finally have a chance. This ends now.”

“My God,” said Thérèse, looking at him closely. “This isn’t about us. This’s about Jean-Guy Beauvoir. You don’t think he’ll survive another raid. That’s why you’re pushing us, pushing Jérôme.”

“This isn’t about Beauvoir.” Gamache reached behind him and clutched the marble countertop.

“Of course it is. You’d sacrifice all of us to save him.”

“Never,” Gamache raised his voice.

“That’s what you’re doing.”

“I’ve been working at this for years,” said Gamache, approaching her. “Long before the raid on the factory. Long before Jean-Guy got into trouble. I’ve given up everything to see this through. It ends tonight. Jérôme will just have to dig deeper. We all will.”

“You’re not being rational.”

“No, you aren’t,” he seethed. “Can’t you see Jérôme’s frightened? Scared sick? That’s what’s draining his energy. The longer we wait, the worse it’ll get.”

“You’re saying you’re doing this to be kind to Jérôme?” demanded Thérèse, incredulous.

“I’m doing this because one more day and he’ll crack,” said Gamache. “And then we’ll all be lost, including him. If you can’t see it, I can.”

“He’s not the one who’s falling apart,” she said. “He’s not the one who was in tears today.”

Gamache looked as though she’d hit him with a car.

“Jérôme can and will do it tonight. He’ll go back in and get us the information we need to nail Francoeur and stop whatever’s planned.” Gamache’s voice was low and his eyes glared. “Jérôme agrees. He, at least, has a backbone.”

Gamache opened the door and left, going up to his room and staring at the wall, waiting for the trembling in his hand to subside.

*   *   *

At two in the morning Jérôme stood up.

Armand had awoken Nichol and come downstairs. He didn’t look at Thérèse and she didn’t look at him.

Nichol descended, disheveled, and put on her coat.

“Ready?” Gamache asked Jérôme.

“Ready.”

Gamache signaled Henri, and they quietly left the home. Like thieves in the night.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Nichol marched ahead, the only one anxious to get to the schoolhouse. But her rush was futile, Gamache knew, since he had the key.

Jérôme held Thérèse’s hand. Both wore puffy black coats and puffy white mitts. They looked like Mickey and Minnie Mouse out for a stroll.

Chief Inspector Gamache brushed past Superintendent Brunel and unlocked the schoolhouse door. He held it open for them, but instead of entering himself, he let it drift shut.

He saw the light go on through the frosted window and heard the metallic clank as the top of the woodstove was lifted and logs were fed to the dying embers.

But outside, there was only a hush.

He tipped his head back and looked into the night sky. Was one of the bright specks not a star at all, but the satellite that would soon transport them from this village?

He brought his gaze back to earth. To the cottages. The B and B, the bakery. Monsieur Béliveau’s general store. Myrna’s bookstore. The bistro. The scene of so many great meals and discussions. He and Jean-Guy. Lacoste. Even Nichol.

Going back years.

He was about to order the final connection made, and then there’d be no turning back. As Nichol so clearly pointed out, they’d be found eventually. And traced back here.

And then no number of woodsmen, of huntsmen, of villagers, of demented poets, of glorious painters and innkeepers could stop what would happen. To Three Pines. To everyone in it.

Armand Gamache turned his back on the sleeping village, and went inside.

Jérôme Brunel had taken his seat in front of one of the monitors, and Thérèse was standing behind him. Yvette Nichol sat beside Dr. Brunel at her own keyboard and monitor, her back already slumped, like a widow’s hump.

They all turned to look at him.

Gamache did not hesitate. At his nod, Yvette Nichol slid under the desk.

“OK?” she asked.

“Oui,”
he said, his voice clipped, determined.

There was silence, then they heard a click.

“Done,” she called, and crawled back out.

Gamache met Jérôme’s eyes, and nodded.

Jérôme reached out, surprised to see his finger wasn’t trembling, and pressed the power button. Lights flashed on. There was a slight crackling and then their screens flashed alive.

Gamache reached into his pocket and brought out a neatly folded piece of paper. He smoothed it out and placed it in front of Jérôme.

Agent Nichol looked at it. At the insignia. And the line of letters and numbers. Then she looked up at the Chief.

“The national archives,” she whispered. “My God, it might work.”

“OK, everything’s live and we’re online,” Jérôme reported. “All the encryption programs and sub-programs are running. Once I log in, the clock starts.”

While Dr. Brunel slowly, carefully, typed in the long access code, Gamache turned away to look at the wall, and the ordnance map. So detailed. Even so, it would not have shown where they now stood had some child years ago not put that dot on the page and written, in careful, clear letters,
Home.

Gamache stared at it. And he thought of St. Thomas’s Church across the way. And the stained-glass window made after the Great War, showing bright young soldiers walking forward. Not with brave faces. They were filled with fear. But still they advanced.

Below them was the list of the young men who never made it home. And below the names the inscription
They were our children.

Gamache heard Jérôme type in the sequence of numbers and letters. Then he heard nothing. Only silence.

The code was in place. Only one thing left to do.

Jérôme Brunel’s finger hovered above the enter button.

Then he brought it down.

“Non,”
said Armand. He gripped Jérôme’s wrist, stopping the finger millimeters from the button. They stared at it, not daring to breathe, wondering if Jérôme had actually hit enter before Gamache had stopped him.

“What’re you doing?” Jérôme demanded.

“I made a mistake,” said Gamache. “You’re exhausted. We all are. If this’s going to work we need to be sharp. Rested. There’s too much at stake.”